I tested the cutoff twice before taking off my glove.
The apparatus stood below a warning against blades and live partners. At the supply wheel's lowest setting, a line of light ran between two exposed studs. A wooden indicator behind the glass would drop only when that line went out completely. Each pull of the separate cutoff lever extinguished it with a click; reopening the supply raised the indicator again.
I turned the brass stand to put the lever on my left, clear of the hand I meant to use.
The cleaner had finished the court before dawn and was working down the steps beyond the open service door. I had until the next lesson. I put the glove beside my notebook, within reach if she came in.
During the night the Ledger had listed Basic Void Circulation and Null Touch as techniques this body could attempt. Circulate first, then make contact; stop if circulation failed. I had copied that carefully. Nothing in the answer had promised safety.
I remembered Cedric using Null Touch to ruin an attack I had spent several seconds setting up. The guide recommended baiting him into it. I could picture his movement more clearly than anything in these instructions.
The plate required me to disrupt the current. I tried the blunt pointer hanging from the base: the light bent around the wood, then straightened as I withdrew it. The indicator stayed up.
I put the pointer down. My bare hand looked very clean next to it.
I brought my feet closer together and took a slow breath. Pressure gathered beneath my ribs. I waited for it to subside, then tried a shallower breath with my shoulders loose.
This time I felt something continue into my arm. At the elbow it almost disappeared; I held still, unwilling to lose it, until a tightness reached my wrist. Two afternoons earlier, one cut had left me sitting on the boundary step. I glanced toward that step now, then back at the line.
I brought my right hand closer. There was no change when my finger hovered just above the current, nor when I lowered it until I could barely see a gap.
Contact hurt at once.
I started to pull away, but the light narrowed under my fingertip. I stopped withdrawing. On the far side of my finger the line had dimmed; on the other, light continued to feed from the stud. If I could hold it for another moment—
The burn was spreading toward the knuckle. My finger shook. I watched the indicator through the glass, waiting for it to fall, and stayed long enough for the pressure to catch in my chest.
My left hand hit the lever.
The line went dark. The wooden piece clicked down. I snatched my right hand back and struck the edge of the stand, which made me swear and nearly knock the notebook onto the floor.
I stared at the fallen indicator. I wanted to have done that. For several breaths I kept looking from it to the lever still held in my left hand.
Outside, the bucket scraped over a step. I lowered my right hand below the stand. The cleaner was bent over the water with her back to me; when she shifted the bucket again, I crossed to the shallow basin beside the racks and opened the tap.
Cool water ran over a red patch on the pad of my index finger. There was a narrow dark line through it. I bent the finger to see how far the mark went and straightened it again quickly. Such a small patch. I held it under the water longer, watching droplets gather on the basin's chipped edge while I listened for someone to come through the door.
No one did. When I shut the tap, it kept dripping. I tightened it a little and left it alone.
The wheel was still on its lowest setting. I checked because I hoped it wouldn't be. Then I read the plate and my copied instructions again, the sore finger held away from the paper. Circulation before contact. I had done that. Stop if it failed. I had stopped, eventually.
Writing was possible if I held the pen farther back. I put down Partial dimming. Manual cutoff. Beneath that I started First successful— and paused. There had been dimming. I wanted to count it.
I crossed out the unfinished line and wrote Target not neutralized, stopping once to adjust my grip.
There was time to try once more. A shorter contact might do it, or at least tell me whether I could let go without losing control of everything else. I checked the cutoff, opened the supply and held my right hand ready, well clear of the studs.
The sensation came through my arm again and caught at the wrist. My index finger curled away. I tried to straighten it, but approaching the light made it shake harder, and the small current I had been trying to hold wouldn't settle. I stood with my jaw clenched, willing the finger forward. It hadn't even touched the line.
I closed the supply.
The click sounded quite ordinary this time. I recorded the failed repetition, making sure to add before contact, and waited for the shaking to stop enough to close the notebook.
The cleaner appeared with her empty bucket. I picked up the glove and folded it over my hand.
"Done here, my lord?" Her eyes went to the basin. "I need the tap."
"Yes. I'm done." I moved out of her way, then remembered the pointer and went back to hang it on its hook. She waited with the bucket against her leg until I had finished.
"It won't quite turn off," I said.
"No." She went around the damp patch by the stand and set the bucket under the tap. Water rattled against the bottom. I took my notebook and left her to it.
---
In my room I tried to put on the glove. The fingertips went in easily enough, but drawing the cuff over my palm pulled the fine black leather tight across the burn. I got it almost into place before I had to stop. Getting it off again was worse; I eased each finger loose with my other hand and left it crumpled on the desk.
By evening the redness had faded around the thin, slightly raised line. The mark remained when I washed the hand. I could bend the finger, carefully, though the skin pulled each time. I caught myself comparing it with the older white mark on Cedric's wrist, as if that could tell me what it would look like tomorrow.
A cup of broth arrived before supper. I lifted it without thinking and felt the handle press into the burned line. Broth spilled into the saucer. I set the cup down, waited for the slopping to stop, and moved it to the other side of the desk. Drinking left-handed was awkward. I kept both elbows on the desk until the cup was empty.